The Story of Mornil
by Hirilnara
Summary: A ficlet developed from Diary of an Undercover Sue. Mornil's encounter with the PPC


This is just a one-off mini ficlet about Mornil, and his encounter with the PPC. The idea wouldn't go away once I thought of it. In fact, it was like Mornil was staring over my shoulder, nagging away at me to write it . . . Mornil is one of the characters in Diary of an Undercover Sue, and this is slightly more detailed than his account in chapter seven. However, it's not necessary to read it . . . you can if you like though, I certainly won't complain, it just doesn't add much to the story and . . .  
  
*sees glare of Mornil, who wants his story to be told*  
  
Right, I'll stop babbling.  
  
The story of Mornil.  
  
"Mornil, may I speak with you? My mind is much troubled."  
  
'No, you can't' the ranger thought, eyes tightly closed in frustration. He had nearly had it, had nearly broken out of the trance that held him in this accursed maids presence. He had even managed to wonder away from her and the Fellowship, to find some peace and solitude in the calm of the forest. But she had found him, and already he could feel her influence clawing back at him, feel its tendrils working their way into his thoughts.  
  
And then he was opening his eyes and looking up at his travelling companion. The beautiful Lady Jilininath, with her skin as pale and soft as a lily petal, her forget me not blue eyes, rosebud lips and hair as gold as a corn sheaf . . . 'Walking garden' the sensible part of his mind that was still valiantly struggling defiantly thought, before it fell silent.  
  
"What troubles your mind my lady? I lay myself at your service." He felt a slight disgust which concerned him for a moment, but it was distant and fading, and his lady needed him.  
  
"It's about Aragorn" she sighed and fiddled with her long silky hair. If she had chosen to look closely, she would have seen Mornil's eyes glazing over.  
  
'It's always about Aragorn' the sane voice fought back against the trance 'What did I do to end up as the shoulder for a whiney, selfish girl to cry on?' He tried to hold onto these thoughts, but he could feel himself slipping into concern.  
  
"Enough" a voice cut off Jilininath's current complaint ("He always talks of Arwen . . . what's so special about HER anyway?") and two dark cloaked figures strode into the clearing. Mornil automatically leapt to his feet, as if to protect her, but something about these two cloaked figures made it easier to resist the Lady Jilininath's presence.  
  
"Her first" said one of the figures. Turning towards the Lady, they reached into their cloaks and pulled out a list each. One of the figures started reading "Lady Jilininath, you have been charged with having a completely ridicules name, with polluting the Fellowship with a tenth AND an eleventh walker . . . if Lord Elrond was here he'd have a pink fit! . . . Claiming fighting skills that aren't humanly possible in that dress no matter how much you train, for creating this wood just so you and Aragorn could share "touching and intimate moments" . . ."  
  
The other figure continued " . . . for annoying in text author notes, for appalling spelling and grammar, for reducing all members of the Fellowship except Aragorn to insignificant two dimensional stereotypes, and for completely mutilating Aragorn's character, and many other charges we were too horrified to write down, you have been sentenced to death."  
  
Jilininath pouted "No fair, I just wanted . . ." What she wanted the world would never know, because one of the cloaked figures chose that moment to behead her with a very large, very sharp axe.  
  
Suddenly, Mornil felt free. The influence she had held over him had ended. His jubilation was cut short, however, when he figure turned to their partner and said "now the ranger?" Instincts, mercifully clear of all taint or stupidity, kicked in. He ran.  
  
Dodging almost blindly from tree to tree, Mornil fled into the forest. He could hear the cloaked figures chasing after him, but their shouts were getting fainter. If he could just throw them off . . . not looking where he was going, he tripped on a tree root, and went flying. Trying to pull himself to his feet, he was rewarded with a fiery pain shooting through his ankle. Cursing under his breath, he dragged himself to a cluster of bushes and hid. The figures were getting closer now, their voices louder. They were methodically searching the forest for him, and it was only a matter of time . . .  
  
Icy dread seized his heart. He was going to die, here in this forest, like a trapped deer. Innocent off all crimes except being unable to escape one wretched girls influence.  
  
They were close now. He could hear their footsteps.  
  
They were searching by the tree that had tripped him.  
  
One called to the other about the flattened grass.  
  
The footsteps grew closer.  
  
Mornil closed his eyes and waited for them to draw the bushes aside.  
  
Waited for his death.  
  
Instead, he felt himself yanked backwards. He was falling continuously, falling through darkness. Dizzy, he found himself in a white room, surrounded by ladies. Overwhelmed with traces of fear, relief, pain and foreboding, Mornil took the most sensible course of action. He fainted.  
  
(A/N) and the rest, as they say, is history. Or maybe story yet to be written, I don't know. The only thing I'm certain of is Mornil should stop nagging now . . . should! Oh, and I know reviews are nice! 


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